


The Falcon Cannot Hear the Falconer

by reine_des_corbeaux



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Captivity, Elias-Typical Condescension, Falconry Kink, Flash Fic, Implied Voyeurism, M/M, Mutilation, Sensory Deprivation, Wing Clipping, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25775893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/pseuds/reine_des_corbeaux
Summary: Elias clips Martin's wings. For his own good, of course.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard
Comments: 11
Kudos: 29





	The Falcon Cannot Hear the Falconer

When Elias (and somehow, even though Martin _knows_ who he really is, he can’t help thinking of Jonah Magnus as Elias still) takes off his hood, Martin bates like a frightened hawk. It’s always a struggle, coming back out of the nothing of darkness and into the greenish everything-light of the Panopticon that hurts his eyes and sends his head spinning. He doesn’t know how long he’s been hooded. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, waiting for rescue or death. All Martin knows, really, is that his wings can’t take him anywhere but up, and even then, Elias might pull him down by the jesses that dangle from his wrists and his ankles. 

Elias smiles, Martin’s hood dangling by its garish green plume from one hand, and Martin tries to fly backwards, wings flapping frantically, only for Elias to put a foot on one of his jesses, grounding him. 

“Not,” he says, “now. You’re only going to hurt yourself, Martin, if you keep doing this.” 

Martin has to admit he’s right. He hates it, but he’s still got the bruises to show from his last escape attempt, and they’ve been on full display ever since Elias took away his clothing with a mocking observation that hawks generally didn’t wear clothes. Martin wanted to retort that hawks generally didn’t have plugs shoved up their arses either, but kept his mouth shut. He has to stay alive, after all. For Jon. For himself. For that tiny, hopeful idea that maybe they can set the broken world a little bit to rights. Martin can’t do that if he’s dead. So he stays on the ground, and only flutters his wings a little as Elias steps behind him and runs a hand down one speckled wing. 

The touch feels good-- that’s the awful part. It feels even better when Elias begins to stroke Martin’s wing with one of Martin’s own feathers, and then he melts into the hated touch and the soothing softness. A sensation that’s equal parts shame and arousal pools hotly in his stomach, and he closes his eyes. He almost doesn’t notice when Elias starts cutting. 

There’s a quick, sharp sound, a painful tug, and a bit of feather floats down into Martin’s field of vision. He tries to bate again, but finds he’s weak as Elias runs a gentling hand down his wing, then clips another feather short. And then another. 

“Hey!” Martin cries, knowing already that his feeble interruptions won’t do anything. “What is this?” 

“You’ll only hurt yourself if you try to fly,” Elias says, as though he’s merely giving a performance evaluation. “Neither I nor the Archivist would like that. This is for your own good.” 

Another feather falls, and Elias strokes Martin’s wing again. Martin gasps. He wants so badly to protest, to use his wings to fly away, but he’s immobilized by the awful arousal wafting over him with each stroke to his wing and the way he leans into Elias’ touch even as Elias cuts feather after feather. Martin’’s losing his one possibility for escape, and the very wings he wants to protect are too sensitive to touch to let him do anything about it. Tears streak his cheeks even as he moans, and for the first time since the start of his captivity, Martin wishes Elias would put his hood back on so that he doesn’t have to see the feathers falling all around him. 

When Elias finishes clipping him, he gives Martin a pat on the wing that makes him moan even as he draws his flightless wings in on himself in a futile gesture of protection. It echoes loudly in the little room Elias calls Martin’s mews as Elias guides him to his hands and knees among the clipped feathers. His hand moves down Martin’s back towards the plug buried in his arse that’s keeping him stretched and open for the inevitable conclusion of this encounter. Marin knows what’s coming, and he tries to flinch away, but Elias twists his hands in Martin’s feathers and _yanks._ Martin cries out, and a jolt of some awful pleasure runs through his body. 

“Now,” Elias says, his voice laced with compulsion, “be obedient. After all, you do want to give Jon something pretty to look at, don’t you?” 

As Elias slowly works the plug out from Martin’s hole, Martin wishes, desperately, that he could fly away. But he can’t. Even if he wasn’t grounded by his useless wings, he’s still held firm by Elias’s hands, still twitching and gasping and feeling so damn helpless he could scream. And when Elias finally pushes himself into Martin, he does. His wings flap uselessly, but he remains on the ground still, and let the pain and anger wash over him as he tries not to think of the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I will write TMA fic that isn't wingfic. Today is definitely not the day. Originally written for the prompt "100 Words of Wingfic Noncon with Bird Details" on a certain anonmeme, where it appeared in a slightly abbreviated state. 
> 
> Title from W.B. Yeats' 'The Second Coming', because I am nothing if not a cliché.


End file.
